


yield

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Knotting, Light BDSM, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, no i won't be taking questions at this time, thane's a Dom i'm right and i should say it, this one's got it all folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 11:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: “For the next hour, you are to show me the same obedience I do you outside these bulkheads.” Thane slowly positions her to his liking—both arms over her head, wrists crossed so he can easily hold her in place. There’s a vicious intimacy to how methodical he’s being. Like this is torture. Like this is worship. “You will do what I say, when I say.”Shepard swallows.“You will obey me as though you were created for that purpose alone.” Thane lowers himself until his mouth is flush with her ear, intentional in the way he denies her contact, in the way he lets her feel the warmth of his body but not the weight. “And you will address me as Sere until I’m finished with you.”---or,the morning after





	yield

**Author's Note:**

> dignity? i don't know her.

Shepard wakes with a start, paralyzed, hot-cold terror vibrating through her limbs, holding her hostage as reality dips in and out and in and out of focus. Tilting, shifting, blurring.

Her team on the ground. 

Lifeless. 

Garrus—scuffed blue armor riddled with holes. Tali—mask broken and splintering her face. And Thane—water streaming from his open mouth, choked by the sea.

Waves claiming him as their own. 

Dragging his body beneath.

Into the dark and the wet and the cold— 

A hand on her waist, steady and real. A mainstay amongst the chaos. “Come back to me.” 

_ Thane. _

Shepard draws in a long breath, lungs quaking as she reaches for calm, for lies, for anything save the horror filling her mind. It was a nightmare. Nothing more. They will survive this mission. They _ will. _

They must.

She blinks, and a half-turned husk crowds the dark space behind her eyes—inky black crawling up Joker’s neck as glowing blue dots edge out his pupils. _ “Commander?” _ He’s confused, like he can’t quite understand that she’s failed him, that she’s failed all of them.

Fused fingers trace a slow circle at the base of her spine, and Shepard releases her breath, pushes the last dregs of the nightmare as far away as she can manage. Farther.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did not.” His voice is rich and grounding, a perfect complement to his movements. “I was not asleep.”

And how could he have been, with how she’s smothering him? Her head is pillowed on his shoulder and she’s got one arm draped across his chest—too high and too heavy atop his damaged lungs. She slides it lower, toward his waist, but Thane catches her wrist and brings her palm to his mouth. Presses a kiss into her skin.

“What troubles you, Siha?”

A dry, strangled bark of laughter lodges in her throat. He may as well have asked her to name every star.

Thane returns her hand to his upper chest and holds it there. “Dreams are not truths.”

_ No, _ she wants to say. _ They’re worse. _Instead, she lets the silence speak for her.

Thane sighs. This close, all she can hear is the wet wrongness of his breaths. This close, she cannot pretend he is well. “You carry too much, Siha.”

_ Carry. _ As if she has a choice to set any of it down. As if the fate of the galaxy isn’t fused to the very marrow of her resurrected bones.

Thane’s muscles pull and shift beneath his scales, and then he’s turning them, settling himself into the clutch of her hips, weight anchoring her to the bed, to the now. “Tell me,” he says softly. 

“I’m… ” _ I’m angry. I’m tired. I’m afraid. I’m everything, all the time, and I just want it to stop. _“I don’t know how.”

He’s patient in the quiet between her words, but his gaze never strays. It’s cruel, in a sense, that he will remember this moment with absolute clarity for as long as he lives. Ten seconds, ten minutes, ten years—it makes no difference. But her? The forgetting will be slow, like dusk creeping up the horizon, every glimpse of a memory a little less vibrant, a little less true, until one day she reaches for him and he is simply gone, lost to the dark.

Shepard presses her eyes closed. “Stay on the ship, Thane.”

The backs of his fingers whisper over her cheek, so gentle it hurts. This, too, she will forget. “Siha?”

“When we take the Base”—the words stick in her throat, but she forces them out, forces herself to look at him—“I want you to stay on the Normandy.”

“You wish me to lead an operation from here?” She hears the question for what it is: hope that he misunderstood her.

“No.”

“I see.” His body subtly tenses, like he’s bracing for a hit. “This is an order, then?” 

She could make it one—and he would no doubt obey—but he would never forgive her. And she would never forgive _ herself. _ No, this needs to be his choice. 

Shepard swallows. Places a hand against his chest. Seals both of their fates. “A request.”

“Then I must decline.” 

She’s never been one for begging, but for Thane? For their future? For this bond between them that she’s still too cowardly to name? There is precious little she won’t do.

“If I am to meet my end,” he says, interrupting her sharp inhale, “I would do so at your side.”

“Th—”

“But,” he continues, “the Sea is distant today.” His lips find her shoulder, and he kisses his vow into her skin, voice low and rough and sure. “I will not leave you, Siha.”

If only he could make such promises. If only it were that simple. If only, if only if only…

Thane pulls back to meet her gaze, lets his thumb graze along her jaw, down her neck. A plea in physical form. 

_ Trust me. _

She does, but only because the alternative is unbearable. She has survived many things, but she wouldn’t survive losing him; not yet, at least. Shepard grinds her teeth. “When I give an order, you follow it.”

“Without hesitation.”

“Thane—”

“My arm is yours, Shepard.” The words are instant and ardent; heavy like a prayer. “As is the rest of me.” Thane smooths a palm over her ribs, lingering on the scars. “My hands,” he says, and then venom-laced lips find a patch of skin untouched by Mordin’s salves. “My mouth.”

Shepard moans.

“I would ask a small indulgence, though.”

She arches against him, rolling her hips. “Name it.” If he’s trying to distract her, it’s working. 

“For the next hour, you are to show me the same obedience I do you outside these bulkheads.” Thane slowly positions her to his liking—both arms over her head, wrists crossed so he can easily hold her in place. There’s a vicious intimacy to how methodical he’s being. Like this is torture. Like this is worship. “You will do what I say, when I say.” 

Shepard swallows.

“You will obey me as though you were created for that purpose alone.” Thane lowers himself until his mouth is flush with her ear, intentional in the way he denies her contact, in the way he lets her feel the warmth of his body but not the weight. “And you will address me as Sere until I’m finished with you.”

“Thane—”

Scaled fingers tighten around her nipple, roughly twisting until she hisses in a sharp breath. “Was I not clear in my instructions?” 

Shepard bows against him, desperate for relief, desperate for more. Her hands bunch and her shoulders flex, but Thane keeps her pinned with effortless grace—and for the first time in her life she understands what it means to be outmatched, what it means to be prey. Thane has never turned his full ability against her—not in strategy meetings and not in the sparring ring. But now? Now she _ knows _ how much he’s been holding back, and it’s almost comical to think he chooses to defer to her.

Thane twists harder, demanding her focus.

“No, Sere,” she manages, words hardly more than a gasp.

The relief is immediate, and Thane’s touch turns featherlight. Then his tongue is soothing the hurt, and the contrast is too much. She keens—a pitiful sound that earns her a kiss at the base of her throat.

“You _ will _ yield control to me, Siha. Because once you do, the only burden you will know is the threat of my disappointment.” 

No Illusive Man. No Collectors. No Reapers. No galaxy on the brink of annihilation, with only her angry hope and tired stubbornness to protect it. No fear of the after, should she survive, should she somehow make it back from the grave dug with her own two hands.

“And you would never disappoint me,” he whispers, “would you, Siha.”

It’s not a question, but she chokes out a _ No, Sere _ anyway. Thane rewards her with murmured praise and drags his nails across her inner thighs—skillfully avoiding the one place she craves his touch the most. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the vague concept of a safeword plucks at her focus, but the most she can conjure is another desperate moan.

Thane’s voice is different when he next speaks—softer. “I will not harm you.” A kiss to her jaw. “If something is uncomfortable, tell me.” He squeezes her wrists as he says the words, and a jolt of pleasure cracks down her spine, pools in her gut. His knowledge of pressure points might actually be her undoing. “If you wish me to stop, simply say so.”

Shepard draws in a slow breath, claws her way back to coherence. “And if I want more, Sere?”

Thane goes instantly still, and for a moment she’s terrified she said the wrong thing, but then— “EDI?”

“Yes, Thane?”

“Ensure the Commander and I remain undisturbed until I next contact you.”

“Of course, Thane.” A pause. “Or would you prefer I also address you as Sere?”

If Thane is embarrassed by EDI’s blatant quip, he doesn’t show it. Shepard, however, is positive that her cheeks are the same color as her lover’s throat. “That will be unnecessary,” Thane says, and Shepard has to bite back a gasp as he works his fingers in a slow, hard circle against her. “Though I would be grateful if you temporarily disabled the video and audio feeds to the Commander’s quarters.”

“Doing so would be a violation of safety protocols.”

“I see.” Thane does something with his thumb that has Shepard swallowing a whine, then adds, “I can tend to the matter myself if you are unable to assist.”

The seconds drag on as EDI considers Thane’s words, and maybe it’s because she knows he’s serious, or maybe it’s because she not-so-secretly has a soft spot for him, but whatever the reason, EDI finally responds with, “Feeds temporarily disabled.”

Thane’s mouth quirks to the side. “My thanks. That will be all, EDI.”

* * *

Shepard is shaking and desperate and halfway to ruined when Thane withdraws his fingers from her cunt, brings them to his mouth, and sucks. A low noise collects in the back of his throat, vibrates in his chest. It’s the single most erotic thing she’s ever witnessed, and if he didn’t have her pinned to the fish tank, she would _ already _ be fucking him. As it is, though, all she can manage is a slow, stunned blink.

When he’s finished, Thane meets her gaze. Smirks. “Would you care for a taste, Siha?”

Shepard gulps, finds herself nodding.

“Very well.” 

Thane works her into another frenzy, fingers as clever as they are cruel, and she strains against his hold on her wrists, but it’s useless. She will move how he likes, where he likes, when he likes. And it is not up for debate.

There’s a sort of freedom in surrendering, in ceding the power she normally wields, in being allowed to simply _ do _ rather than _ decide _. It’s intoxicating.

Thane abruptly pulls his hand back, and Shepard whimpers, hips chasing after his touch. He all but ignores her, instead hovering his fingers in front of her lips as he patiently waits for her to compose herself. “Taste,” he says, “but do not suck. I won’t have my venom interfering with your pleasure.” 

Honestly, his tactics should be considered their own form of warfare.

Thane indolently swipes his fingers over her tongue, her lower lip. “I must confess, Siha”—he tips her chin up, wraps his palm around her throat—“I find your scent to be… distracting at times.”

Shepard lets her head drop back against the tank. “Distracting?”

“I believe your biochemists call them _ pheromones _,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, lips tracing the line of her collarbone. “To my knowledge, drell do not produce them. We do, however, possess a keen sense of smell.” Blunted teeth flash across her skin. “Recently, even being on the same deck as you has tested my self-control. You are”—he squeezes her wrists, inhales slowly—”incredibly alluring.”

Shepard’s eyes flutter closed. 

“Now,” he says, mouth hot and wicked against her throat, “I am going to release you, and you are going to remain still. Say, _ Yes, Sere. _”

Her head is swimming with want, but she forces out a weak _ Yes, Sere, _and the pressure around her wrists instantly disappears. 

“Look at me.”

How could she not? He’s a vision in green, cool-toned starlight glinting off his scales, patterned stripes wrapping him in the deepest black. Drell may be beautiful, but Thane is devastating.

He wedges a knee between Shepard’s thighs, and she gasps. “You will not move unless I command it.” Thane’s gaze is dark and focused—on her, only her. “You will not speak unless I command it.” He presses in closer, until his face crowds out all else, until he is her entire world. “And you will not come unless I command it.”

She needs to kiss him. She needs to kiss him like she needs to breathe.

“Tell me you understand, Siha.”

Her mouth is on his before she can master the urge, hands pulling at the back of his neck, tongue pressing against his lips. She can taste herself on him—

Thane rears back, breaking the contact, and once again her wrists are trapped in a vise, only this time he’s devoted both hands to pinning her. “You will not do that again,” he says quietly. Firmly. It’s the closest to furious Shepard has ever seen him, and it’s _ outrageously _ attractive. 

“Apologies, Sere.” She is anything but sorry. “I forgot myself.” Venom tingles on her lips, bright and tempting. When she makes to lick it off, Thane tightens his hold on her wrists—hard enough to make her gasp.

Night-dark eyes lock onto hers. “You will be sober when you come for me, Siha." Thane’s voice is a sharpened curl of smoke when he adds, "Or you will not come at all.”

_ Fuck. _

“Do we understand each other?”

She gulps to jumpstart her lungs. “Y— Yes, Sere.”

“Good.” He has her facedown on the bed before she can even register the change in position, and then he’s twisting her arms across her lower back, guiding her hands into position. “Clasp your elbows.”

She does. 

Thane braces his knees on either side of her thighs and leans forward so his mouth is beside her ear. “If you let go, I will stop. If you speak out of turn, I will stop.” He works a hand between her legs, teeth marking her shoulder as he slips his fused fingers inside her. “And if you come without permission, I will stop.”

Shepard tightens her grip on her elbows and presses her forehead into the mattress. Groans.

“Have I made myself clear, Siha?” Thane withdraws his fingers, and she whimpers. “When I ask you a question”—his hand winds in her hair, pulling hard enough to lift her chin off the bed—“I expect an answer.”

Shepard swallows, clutches her elbows to avoid letting go. “I understand, Sere.”

Thane releases her head, smooths a palm over her hair, down her neck, her spine. A moment later, both of his hands close around her hips. “Good,” he says, and yanks her toward him, onto her knees. She almost throws her hands forward for balance, but the strength of his order keeps her arms locked in place better than restraints ever could.

One hand disappears from Shepard’s hip, and then something slick and hard is pressing against her entrance. “I exercised restraint last night, Siha.” Thane guides their bodies together, slow enough that she can feel every dip and ridge along his length, slow enough that she doesn’t immediately tense up as his thicker base stretches her. Just when she doesn’t think she can take any more, Thane goes still. “Would you have me do so again?" His fingers dig into her flesh. "Would you have me deny myself pleasure so that you remain comfortable?”

The thought of him burying himself in her fully is almost enough to make Shepard black out. _ Gods, _ she wants nothing more. A tremor starts in her legs, travels from her knees to her hips. “No, Sere. I would not.”

Thane positions his thumbs on either side of her spine, midway up her back, and presses down—_ hard. _ Warmth tumbles through her limbs, relaxing her muscles, easing the burn. “Then do not keep me waiting, Siha.”

It takes her a moment to catch his meaning, to understand that he wants _ her _ to be the one who fuses their hips together. She could refuse him, of course—he told her as much when they began—but the thing is, she doesn’t _ want _ to. She doesn’t want to disappoint him.

Not now, not ever.

So, on a long exhale, Shepard eases herself the rest of the way back, choking on the cry that lurches into her throat, ignoring the angry heat in her cunt. Thane doubles over, palms braced on either side of her head, breaths coming sharp and fast, and _ gods, _his resulting groan is worth any measure of pain.

“Good, Siha.” Cool, unerring fingers find her clit, and he works her discomfort back into pleasure. “Good,” he says again. 

Shepard drinks in the praise, lets the low vibrato of Thane’s voice soothe her. It’s obscene, this effect he has on her, this spell he’s able to weave with nothing more than his tongue and his touch. Obscene and unfair.

“Would you have me fuck you now, Siha?” Thane rocks his hips—gently, cautiously—and Shepard moans her approval; if this is a test, she means to pass. “A question, then” —he draws halfway out before slowly burying himself again, fingers never faltering in their rhythm against her. “Shall I take you slow and make you beg, or shall I take you fast and make you scream?”

Six hours. It’s taken him six hours to map her body, to learn where and how and how intensely she likes to be touched. A perfect memory is not without its advantages. “Whatever— _ ah— _pleases you, Sere.”

Another measured thrust. “Very well,” he says, and Shepard can practically _ hear _ the pride in his voice; apparently she answered correctly. Thane’s fingers cease their teasing, and he pulls back—too far. Before Shepard can protest, he has her on her back again, legs around his hips and hands above her head. “It would _ please _ me,” he murmurs, close enough to kiss, “to have your fingers on my throat.” Thane releases one of her hands, careful to keep the other pinned.

“Would my lips not please you more, Sere?” 

“Without question.” Thane sinks back into her, slow and deep, until there’s no space left between them. “But I believe I was quite clear that you would abstain from my venom.” A sharp snap of his hips has Shepard gasping. “And I also believe I was quite clear that you would not speak out of turn.”

Shepard can’t do anything but gape. She hadn’t realized— hadn’t meant— 

“I will forgive this lapse in focus, Siha, but do not expect mercy from me a second time.” Thane guides one of her hands to the ribbing at his throat. “You would not be the first to find me lacking in that particular virtue.” 

Were she a well-adjusted person with well-adjusted morals, Thane’s comment would turn her stomach; Shepard, however, is anything but well-adjusted, and so Thane’s unsubtle reminder about his capacity for violence nearly makes her come on his next thrust. A hand at her throat is the only thing that stops her from shattering completely.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to finish.”

Gods help her, the feel of him restricting her air sends another spike of heat straight to her core, pulls another moan from her lips.

Thane finally seems to catch on, dark eyes getting wider as he lets up on her throat and goes blessedly still. “You are full of surprises, Siha.”

She can’t find it in herself to be embarrassed, not when he’s gazing at her with barely-tempered delight, not when she can feel him grow even harder inside her.

Thane’s mouth quirks to the side. “Another time, perhaps.” He angles her head and presses his lips to the hollow beneath her ear. Adds, “When we do not have somewhere to be so soon afterward.” Thane lets his hand drop to her breast, rolls her nipple between his fingers. “Would you like that?” he says, hips once more finding a languid rhythm.

“Yes,” she manages on a gasp, quickly tacking on the forgotten _ Sere _ before he has a chance to correct her.

“And what else would you care to try, I wonder?” Thane drives into her hard and slow, hilting himself on each thrust, one hand at her hip, the other easily holding her pinned wrist in place. “Ropes, perhaps? I assure you, I am quite gifted at knotwork.”

Of course he is. He fucks like he fights: with calculated precision. Depthless, burning want tears at her control, reels her back toward the edge.

“Shall I interpret that noise as a yes?”

“Thane, please—”

“Address me properly or not at all.”

Shepard bucks against him, screws her eyes shut, digs her fingers into the back of his neck. She is alive and lost and aching with want, consumed by the need to earn his favor. “Sere—”

“Yes, Siha?” The casualness in his tone is almost her undoing.

“Sere, please— I can’t— I need—” The rest is lost to a moan as the coil in her gut winds tighter, compresses into pure heat, hot as the center of a star.

“Ask, Siha. I will grant your request.”

“Please let me— _ ah— _” Thane sucks a mark into the base of her throat, and she keens. “Please let me come, Sere.”

Scaled fingers wind behind her neck, and Thane gently draws her focus. Full lips, dark green eyes, cheeks the color of a desert sunset. “Very well,” he whispers, reverent and loyal and _ hers. _ “Come for me, Shepard.” 

Release finds her swiftly, stealing her breath, hollowing her out until there’s only space for bliss—and then Thane’s working his fingers against her, deft and sure, so perfect she could cry, she could scream, she could

just— 

let— 

go—

* * *

Shepard’s throat is raw and her skin is slick when the world comes yawning back to life. She’s boneless and spent, and the fear is still there, just as it always is, but it’s more manageable now, somehow. More controlled.

Plated lips brush her forehead, so tender it might be mistaken for devotion. 

“Thane.” It comes out weak and raspy, completely unrecognizable as an intelligent noise, let alone a name. Shepard swallows. Blinks the room into focus. Checks the time—half five; the ship will be stirring soon.

Thane continues carding his fingers through her sweat-damp hair. “How are you feeling, Siha?”

Truthfully, her hips are a little sore. As are, well, _ other _ areas, but— Wait.

_ Wait. _

Why is he still on top of her? Why can she still feel— “Are you…?” Shepard locks eyes with Thane, hoping he’ll take pity on her. No such luck. She clears her throat and tries again. “Are we still… joined?”

Thane tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course,” he says, lips trailing over her jaw, down her neck.

“But last night—”

“Last night your body was not accustomed to mine. This morning was…” he smirks—“different. And so now we are joined, as you say.”

It’s not an unwelcome development—not exactly—but it _ is _a little… unexpected. Shepard cants her hips, curious, and one of Thane’s hands darts to her thigh, holds her still.

“_ That, _” he says sternly, “is a masterful way to render us indisposed for another half-hour.”

She could think of worse ways to spend a morning—which reminds her: there are a litany of tasks to complete before they take the Base. Blueprints to analyze, weapons to check, apologies to make. She sweeps her thumb over Thane’s ribbing. “How long until…?” She lets the rest of the question go unsaid.

A crackling laugh. “You wish to be rid of me so soon, Siha?”

Shepard forces him to look at her. She needs him to hear and believe and _ know _ she means it when she says, “Never.”

Thane turns into her touch, kisses her palm. “Five minutes more,” he says lightly, then fixes her with a chastising glare. “Ten if you keep squirming.”

“Well then. I suppose I definitely shouldn’t do _ this—” _ On the final word she rolls them over, and Thane’s absolute lack of a reaction tells her two vital pieces of information: one, he knew what she was going to do; and two, he _ let _ her do it.

“No,” he says, and slowly sits up, one hand curving around her hip, the other gliding over her spine, pulling her closer. Skin to scales. “You most certainly should _ not _ do that.”

“I believe I’m owed a kiss.” Shepard drapes her arms over his shoulders, marvels at the way his muscles bunch and flex, every twitch controlled, every movement precise. “Perhaps even as many as two.”

“Shepard,” Thane says on a sigh, hands smoothing over her arms. Mordin’s salves are wearing off in certain places, and a rosy pink rash decorates her wrists. “It’s nearly time to report to stations. As commander you should not be—”

“High?”

Thane tips his head to the side—his preferred method of acknowledging crude honesty. “I was going to say _ compromised. _”

He’s right, of course, but she’s not about to _ admit _ it. She shrugs. “I’ll have Mordin give me a shot of antivenin.”

“Siha, I don’t think—”

“Thane,” she says firmly, thumbs stroking the deep red ribbing at his throat. If this is to be their last morning together, she means to savor it. “We have time for this.” 

He says nothing, only watches her with those eyes that see too much. And then, on an exhale, he yields. “So we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! feel free to come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rjsheddwrites) >:]


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